By Caitlin Van Hefty 
Your arrival into this world was in true Minnesota fashion. You decided it was time to make your entrance on a bitterly cold day, the temperature well below zero, just hours before a massive blizzard rolled in. Our house was cold and dark at 3 a.m. when the contractions started. It was six days before Christmas 2022, and I was only 36 weeks pregnant. As the contractions quickly strengthened, we anxiously threw together a duffel bag and bundled up, knowing we’d need to brave the elements to make it to the hospital in time.
When we welcomed you into our arms later that morning, the snow had already begun to fall. It was a harsh system, with wild winds forcing hundreds of Midwesterners to cancel their holiday travel plans. You were early but healthy, and we enjoyed our first few days with you safe and warm inside the hospital room.
That was just the beginning of that infamous winter, one of the most brutal in our state’s history. The third snowiest on record, putting even the hardiest of Minnesotans into the trenches of relentless shoveling, icy roads, and school closures.
So many people will think back on that winter and remember the hassle of it all. They’ll remember the long commutes, the windshield wipers frozen to the glass. They’ll remember towering snow banks and slippery sidewalks. But what I’ll remember is you.
I’ll remember putting you under the Christmas tree for a picture. We enjoyed a quiet and slow first holiday as a family of four, your older brother gleefully showing you his new toys.
I’ll remember the couch snuggles on those frigid days during maternity leave. We had nowhere else to be. So with you on my chest and a cozy blanket around us both, we listened to the wind whip against the windows outside while I sang you to sleep.
I’ll remember those early morning feedings as the snow plows prepped the neighborhood for the morning rush hour. They’d rumble past, breaking the living room silence, and you’d turn your sweet head toward the noise. “Yep, they’re out again,” I’d whisper to you.
I’ll remember the hard moments too. I’ll remember the pangs of cabin fever when you and I were both feeling isolated and exhausted. Those long afternoons when we wished for a picnic in the sunshine, and instead needed five layers just for a quick trip to the grocery store. I’ll remember crying along with you, as we navigated the growing pains of those first few months.
I’ll remember feeling like a superhero on our outings to the park when the temperature permitted, prepping us both in our outdoor gear. We’d choose a stretch of pavement clear of snow and slush so the stroller wheels wouldn’t stick. Then we’d find a rhythm, walking back and forth, back and forth, pivot turning at each end. We didn’t care how silly we might have looked. We were just happy to be out enjoying the fresh air, together.
I went back to work in late March, just when winter’s iron grip was loosening. The days became a bit longer. The grass started to peek out. And, as the temperatures ramped up, so did our daily lives: daycare drop-offs, backyard gatherings, soccer games, playground outings. As everyone emerged from their caves, our social calendar filled up again. We found ourselves passing you around at summertime potlucks, watching you win the hearts of family and friends with your charm.
And I found it all a little bittersweet. To share you with the world is a special gift. But I’ll always remember our own special season of hibernation. I’ll remember how you taught me to slow down and rest. To soak in the quiet moments. To relinquish control and simply be present. To cherish each new day, whatever it happened to throw at us.
I’ll always remember that winter. It was cold, and it was hard, and it was so, so beautiful.
by Emily Waletich 
by Heather Spiva 
